


perfect mayhem

by dustofwarfare



Category: Tales of Berseria
Genre: Banter, M/M, bath houses are made for pr0n, reaper's curse means everyone knows what you're up to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 08:02:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19437286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustofwarfare/pseuds/dustofwarfare
Summary: Maybe there’s no more fitting target for a Reaper’s lust than a war daemon -- and what is Rokurou, really, if not joyful death, the same face that smiles up at Eizen from his coin?----Or, Eizen finds Rokurou in the bathhouse in Meirchio, and helps him celebrate his victory over Shigure -- Reaper's Curse be damned.





	perfect mayhem

**Author's Note:**

> I'm nearly done with this game and I just need more fic of this pairing, so, I wrote some. New fandom is new, and all that. 
> 
> Also, look, I LOVE Magilou, okay. I think writing her was kinda my fave part of this. Title is obviously Eizen's mystic arte, because it made me smile.

Eizen leans against the railing, watching as the Scarlet Moon rises high in the night sky above Meirchio. He’s seen this phenomenon before, on the deck of the Van Altia and elsewhere, but never somewhere like this. Never where the white snow takes on the tinge of blood all around, where even the wind tastes like death, sharp and cold as a blade. 

It makes Eizen think of Rokurou and Shigure, fighting in the stifling heat of Mt. Killaraus. The sound of combat singing off the burning stones, the taste of ash and sweat thick in the small, crowded cavern. Eizen is from the mountains but those cramped, narrow caves and passages are not his domain. He’s a creature of open spaces, mountain tops and seas and vast empty fields like Gaiburk, places where he can see the sky. 

Eizen flips his coin. It glints briefly, edges dipped in the red light of the moon, before he catches it in his palm. He doesn’t look at it -- he doesn’t need to. By now he knows the feel of the ridges on the side he never sees, familiar against his palm. 

“Are you being broody?” Magilou appears beside him, hands on her hips. “You are, aren’t you. Broody Eizen who broods! Did you know that’s what you call a group of chickens, a brood? Do you want to be a chicken, because I don’t think you do, that would be a _foul_ life, eh?” 

“There’s no point in brooding,” Eizen says, ignoring her terrible pun. “It is as it is.” He slides a glance over at her, considering. “Are you pleased, then? About your former master?” 

She smiles, but it’s the same one she wears onstage, when she doesn’t mean it and everything’s an act. “There’s no point in brooding,” she says, parroting his words back at him. “It is as it is.” 

“But you hated him, didn’t you?” he asks. She confuses him, Magilou. Velvet and her consuming hatred he understands, for that’s simple enough. Eleanor’s piety and Laphicet’s purity, even Rokurou’s taste for war, are things he can comprehend. But Magilou, she’s like the depths of the ocean -- unknowable and just as impossible to reach before you lose your breath and drown. 

“Because emotions are stupid,” Magilou says, with her little laugh, the one that always teases just at the edge of bitter. “And sometimes I wonder if the Abbey doesn’t have the right idea. Begone, foolish complicated feelings!” She strikes a ridiculous pose. “Magikazam, you overwrought, hellscape of nonsensical and conflicting ideals and desires! Let us be like those Normin dolls, vacant and useless and sold by merchants!” 

Eizen rolls his eyes at her theatrics. “I think you’re brooding, too. Just with more words. And louder.” 

Her laugh this time isn’t quite so bitter. “Oh, Eizen. That was funny! Do other people know you’re funny? I think they don’t.” 

He doesn’t know and doesn’t much care if they do. Also, he’s not trying to be funny. She really _is_ loud. And theatrical. “Spoken like someone who’s never had their will taken from them. Ask Laphicet if he’d like to go back to that life, now that he knows what it is to live.” 

“Maybe I will,” she says, staring off into the wine-dark sea. “But not until after he learns what it is to _lose_. Then he can make a more well-informed choice. Living is all well and good when life treats you right, eh, Reaper?” 

Eizen can concede that she’s not wrong about that. But he still doesn’t think she quite understands. Her emotions were manipulated by Melchior, true -- but she was always allowed to have them. 

“Well, at any rate, it doesn’t matter, what’s done is done and the stage is set, the final act approaches! All we can do is learn our lines, hope no one misses their cues, and bring the house down when it’s time.”

She’s not wrong about that, either. Magilou would, he thinks, make a good pirate. Maybe if they get through this alive, he’ll tell her that. If they all survive, she’ll need _something_ to do. 

As long as she’s a pirate on another ship. The crew of the Van Eltia might give him a pass for the Reaper’s Curse, but he’s not sure they’d ever forgive him for Magilou. 

***

The inn is quiet when Eizen returns, though he’s still too restless to want to sleep. Looking at the sea was maybe a bad idea -- it makes Eizen want to be out there, on the water, the only place he’d ever truly felt he belonged.

Van Aifread used to talk about that, the longing of a sailor to be back on his ship, with the salt-stained wood beneath his boots and the waves pitching them to and fro like a toy. 

“Nothin’ much ever makes you realize just how little we’re in control than bein’ on a ship in a storm,” he used to say. “The waves don’t care, they just are. You do what you can and hope you come out the other side none the worse for wear, eh, Eizen?” 

So far, so good. But there’s a storm big enough to swallow the seas on the horizon, and Eizen has to admit this may be the one that finally does him in. But maybe not. He tosses his coin again, the metal warm in his palm. He glances down; the death's-head grins its rictus grin back up at him. He slides it in his pocket in a practiced gesture and makes his way to the baths.

Submerging himself in some calm water that doesn’t look like blood, that sounds like it might be nice. 

Eizen is just shrugging out of his jacket when he feels the awareness of something in the room with him. A hint of copper, like blood. Ozone, like the air before a storm. And something spicy, like whatever’s in that Mabo curry Laphicet likes so much. “Hello, Rokurou.” Even now, after fighting at Rokurou’s side, it takes him some time to understand the _wrongness_ of Rokurou’s scent, that the daemonic essence Eizen can faintly taste in the back of his throat isn’t a sign of danger or an impending fight. 

It’s a daemon, a _war daemon_ , but it’s also a friend. _He’s_ a friend. Rokurou is not easy to think of anything but a man. 

“Hey, Eizen,” Rokurou says, and the water moves when he talks. “Want me to clear out?” 

Eizen shakes his head and takes off his jacket. He turns toward the bath, fingers working the buttons of his vest. “It’s a bathhouse, isn’t it? Meant for more than one.” 

Rokurou is lounging in the water, skin fair and dark hair for once unbound. The strands still half-cover the mark of his daemonhood, and it’s longer than Eizen thought. Rokurou has the sated look of a winter wolf that just gorged itself on a deer carcass, though, loose-limbed and smiling in contentment of the kill. 

_Swordsmen,_ Eizen thinks, finishing undressing. _They’re all the same. Hunters who play with their prey, kill without mercy, then seek out a sunbeam in which to bask._ No wonder Shigure’s malak had been a cat. It hardly mattered that Rokurou was a war daemon; he was a swordsman first and foremost. 

Eizen isn’t usually hesitant about being naked in front of others -- malaks generally aren’t modest, that’s a human conceit -- but there’s something about being naked in front of Rokurou that gives him a bit of a pause. Desire and lust aren’t unknown to malaks, or even to Eizen. But he’s never lusted after a daemon before, and Rokurou looks far too tempting all naked and wet as he is. 

As he slides into the water Eizen thinks about the coin in his coat pocket. His fingers itch with the desire to flip it, even though he already knows what he’d see if he did. Nothing good will come of indulging in this unusual impulse, but for Eizen, it could be said that nothing good is fated to come from anything. 

( _You’ll regret this,_ he’d said to Zaveid, years ago. 

_I regret a lot of things,_ Zaveid had said, pulling him closer. _Hasn’t once stopped me from doing them.)_

Maybe there’s no more fitting target for a Reaper’s lust than a war daemon -- what is Rokurou, really, if not joyful death, the same face that smiles up at him from his coin? Eizen slides into the water and lets the heat and steam surround him, sinking under for a moment to wet his hair. When he emerges and blinks the water out of his eyes, Rokurou is watching him, fingers tapping a rhythm on the edge of the bath and a catlike smile curving his mouth. 

Eizen is a wind malak, and it means he’s attuned to shifting currents -- of air, of water, of people and, it seems, of daemons. “You must be happy. That you won your battle.” 

“Sure.” Rokurou’s smile widens, a brief flash of fangs. “Eleanor thought I’d be sad. She _cried,_ Eizen. I made an exorcist cry!” 

“That’s the point of daemons, isn’t it?” Eizen asks, mildly. “To bedevil exorcists, and bring them to tears?” 

“Ha! Maybe. To be honest, I never cared much about that. Philosophy bored me unless it was about fighting, then maybe I cared a _little._ But I’d rather be practicing.” Rokurou reaches up like he’s going to push his hair out of his face, but something makes him stop and he drops his hand back down. 

“You can, you know.” Eizen says. He doesn’t miss the startled look he gets for that, and he’s glad the heat from the bath will hide his own flush. Malaks aren’t modest, but they can still blush. “I know what you are.” _And I still want you._ “I don’t care about seeing your blight.” 

“That’s not why -- yeah, okay..” Rokurou pushes his hair back, showing the side of his face that’s normally kept covered. The stark black and red lines of the daemonblight aren’t unattractive, and the red of his right eye is fitting. It reminds Eizen for a moment of the moon outside, blood-bright in a dark sky. “I cover it up so, you know. The girls and Laphicet don’t get scared.” 

Eizen raises his eyebrows. “If Velvet heard you say that, she’d eat you.” 

“Man, she’s probably gonna do that anyway, eventually. Hell, I might even let her, once we’re all done with this.” His laugh is low and wicked, properly daemonic. “I’d probably be into it.” 

Eizen actually smiles. “That’s why she wouldn’t do it.” 

“You’re not wrong, there. Our Lord of Calamity,” Rokurou laughs, the sound filling the small bathhouse. “Better name might be Lord of _Contrary,_ am I right?” 

There’s certainly no arguing with _that_. 

“You said you had sake,” Eizen says, moving closer. “Care to share some?” 

“Right! Here you go.” Rokurou half-turns, muscles shifting as he pours some for Eizen and hands over the ochoko. “Can malaks get drunk?” he asks. “I didn’t know if daemons could. It was one of the first three things I tried doing, when I became one.” 

“We can, as long as we possess our will to make the choice to do it in the first place,” Eizen says, sipping it. It’s not bad. The sake has a sharp bite that reminds him a bit of the snow and wind outside, despite the warmth of the drink. “What were the other two?” 

“If I could eat, and if I could --” Rokurou gives a furtive glance around. “Fuck,” he says, in a hushed whisper. Like it’s a secret. 

Eizen snorts. “I know the word, Rokurou. I’m a malak, I’ve been around awhile.” 

“I know, but, come on, what if Laphicet was in here? He’s just a kid.” Rokurou grins sheepishly. “Like a little brother.” 

Rokurou, who won’t say _fuck_ in front of his _de facto_ little brother, but will kill his older one and celebrate with sake and a soak afterward. Eizen shakes his head. “You’re the strangest daemon I’ve ever met. And I hang out with Velvet.” 

Rokurou laughs with gusto. “She’s a therion, though, right? She eats daemons. That’s way weirder than me.” 

“If you say so,” Eizen says, and holds out his ochoko for a refill. 

“Look at you, gonna show me what a malak’s like when he’s drunk?” Rokurou pours more sake. “Do you start singing sea chanty songs? Teach me a dirty one, we’ll annoy the girls with it, it’ll be great. Magilou because it’ll be better than any of _her_ material, Eleanor because Laphicet will either ask us what it means or insist on singing it, too, and Velvet because it’s not about our plan to kill the Shepherd or Innominat.” 

Eizen snorts. “You don’t want to hear me sing, and they’re mostly just sad songs about dying at sea. I think we’re good as far as depressing goes. And I’m not sure about all malaks, but this one’s just the same as he always is. Bad luck.” _And a bad idea._ He takes the shot of sake and hands the ochoko back to Rokurou. He should probably stop drinking. Being drunk here in this town beneath a blood moon, with the Empyreans feasting even now on the souls Velvet shoved into the earthpulse, seems like -- well. Asking for trouble. 

_Well, when aren’t you_ ? A voice says. _If you’re going to die tomorrow, then you better live a little today._ It sounds a bit like Aifread. When Rokurou offers the ochoko with the last of the sake, Eizen takes it and lifts it in a toast -- to Rokurou and his triumph over legate Shigure, their possible and probable doom fighting against a god, and to the captain Eizen watched die in his arms. 

“So, can you?” he asks, when Rokurou turns back to him. They’re very close, enough that if Eizen wanted to reach out and touch, he could. But he doesn’t. Not yet. 

Malaks are, perhaps, given to appreciating the subtle pleasure to be found in patience. Even when they’re a little tipsy from half-decent sake in a hot springs bath, surrounded by blood-tinged snow and vendettas. 

“Can I, what? Get drunk? Oh, yeah. Can I eat? Well, sure, we’ve been over that.” Rokurou tilts his head, his thick hair ink-dark beneath the water. “Are you asking if I can fuck?” 

“Maybe,” Eizen says. “But it’s probably not a good idea,” he adds, as always. His disclaimer. 

“Is anything, with you?” Rokurou asks, but he doesn’t say it like, say, Magilou would -- stinging like a snake bite, with enough cruelty to make it not quite the tease as intended. Rokurou is a war daemon but his bloodlust is entirely without malice.

“Nope,” Eizen answers. “It hasn’t been yet.” He glides forward in the water the last few inches, and while their height difference is minimal it’s enough that with Rokurou sitting on the bench, Eizen has to bend down. He takes his time about it, giving Rokurou plenty of time to tell him to knock it off if he’s not into it. It’s always possible that the lust Eizen can taste on the air is really just for blood. 

It isn’t. 

Rokurou half-rises and presses up against Eizen as best he can, initiating the kiss with the same aggressiveness he shows in battle. He tastes like sake and maybe a little like copper, and his scent reminds Eizen of the volcano; all ash and sulfur and hellfire, but this time, Eizen doesn’t mind it. He moves back so that Rokurou can get to his feet, and suddenly he’s right there, wet hard body pressing against Eizen’s, water-slick beneath Eizen’s hands. 

“This is a better way to celebrate than drinking sake by myself,” Rokurou says, against his mouth. His cock is already hard, pressed up against Eizen’s hip. “So can _you_? Malaks fuck, right?” 

“Nope,” Eizen says, kissing him and reaching down to slide his hand over Rokurou’s cock. “We just tease and then vanish into the ether.” 

“Hey! That’s -- oh, ha, ha,” Rokurou says, and it turns into a moan as Eizen strokes him. “Well, you -- ah -- should we -- are we going to do this _here_?” Rokurou blinks up at him. “We can, I just -- don’t we need --” 

“I have a room,” Eizen says, amused -- though not surprised -- by Rokurou’s usual passionate fervor. He slides his hand up and down Rokurou’s cock, thumb rubbing circles over the head, sliding down to tease at his balls before repeating the caress. “This is a malak tradition. We call it _foreplay._ ” 

“You’re a dick,” Rokurou tells him, but kisses him again. He’s a good kisser, enthusiastic as Eizen knew he would be. “How about we do this.. _.Rangetsu-style_?” 

“I can’t believe you just said that,” Eizen says, pressing his forehead to Rokurou’s as he tries -- and fails -- not to smile. “Fine, what’s Rangetsu-style?” 

“We go to my room, or your room, and fuck until we can’t move?” Rokurou kisses at his neck, and now _he’s_ reaching beneath the water to touch Eizen’s cock, calloused fingers sliding with purpose up and down his erection. “Want me to say something about how I’m highly skilled... _with dual swords_?” 

“No,” Eizen gasps, fingers clutching suddenly at Rokurou’s shoulders. Rokurou is on the offensive, now, and Eizen feels stunned like in battle, unable for a moment to do anything but stand there and sway. And also he’s trying not to laugh. It’s an unusual combination. “No, I don’t want you to say that.” 

“No?” Rokurou smiles against his throat, then his teeth nip -- and if he’s honest, Eizen likes the sharp bite of fangs that aren’t human against his skin, it’s dangerous and exciting, like Rokurou himself. “Just want to get right to it and show me your malak artes, huh?” 

“I’ll show you the back of my malak ass if you don’t stop with the jokes,” Eizen says, hips thrusting as he pushes his cock into Rokurou’s perfect grip. “As on, on my way out of the bath to leave you with your sake.” 

“That’s what I’m trying to do, here,” Rokurou says, giving him one last, wonderful, firm stroke of his hand before moving away. “But I’m going with you, ‘cause I’m all out of sake.” 

“Let’s go,” Eizen says, and kisses Rokurou once more before heading toward the stairs. His room isn’t far. He pulls on just enough to be decent -- his pants, sans underwear, and his unbuttoned shirt, holding the rest of his clothes in a damp bundle to hide the evidence of his not-nearly-sated arousal. He’s dripping wet, but it’s not a far trip. 

Rokurou’s ready in seconds, pulling on his loose pants and robe, and they make their way out of the bath into the main room. The fire is lit but there’s no one else there, and they go to Eizen’s room since Rokurou’s is next to the one where Laphicet usually sleeps with Eleanor. 

They’re naked almost seconds after the door is closed and locked, tumbling on the bed together in a tangle of damp, eager limbs. Having Rokurou naked, dark hair spread out around him on the sheets, is as sinful as having a daemon in his bed should be. Eizen gives in and lets himself touch the markings on Rokurou’s face. It doesn’t seem to bother Rokurou, who just smiles up at him, confident like he was earlier in battle with his brother, and then turns to suck Eizen’s fingers into his mouth. His tongue is quick and clever, and Eizen shivers at the slight hint of fangs dragging over his skin. 

Eizen kisses Rokurou and then moves down, over his chest and lower, until he can slide Rokurou’s hard cock into his mouth and taste him. Rokurou thrashes around in pleasure, grabbing at Eizen’s hair, and he’s so loud that Eizen has to, at one point, lift his head and say, “Shhh, you’ll wake someone up and they’ll think you’re being murdered in here.” 

Rokurou’s response is to grab a pillow and smash it over his face, which makes Eizen laugh a bit before he goes back to his task. As he figured, Rokurou allows Eizen to suck him for slightly less time than it takes him to rush into battle, then he’s tossing the pillow aside and tugging at Eizen’s hair. “Fuck me, c’mon, please, I’m definitely ready for it.” 

Eizen gets off the bed long enough to rummage through his pack for suitable lube, which is half-hidden beneath two ancient peach gels he picked up somewhere ages ago in Hellawes. He takes a moment to appreciate Rokurou, who’s kneeling on his bed on his hands and knees, tossing his hair like a courtesan and looking at Eizen expectantly. “So, you’re gonna give it to me Range--” 

“No,” Eizen interrupts, louder than he should. He climbs on the bed and gives Rokurou a firm smack on his ass. “Once was enough for that joke.” Honestly. He slicks his cock up and then he’s settling behind Rokurou, teasing him with his cock for a bit and making Rokurou whine before pushing in slow. 

Rokurou moans, and Eizen -- quiet though he usually is -- answers the sound with a moan of his own. It feels good, Rokurou’s body is hot and tight around his cock, his skin warm beneath Eizen’s hands. He likes it a little rough, likes Eizen pulling his long hair while Eizen fucks him, hard enough that despite their efforts to be quiet the headboard knocks against the wall. 

Eizen gets a hand down to stroke Rokurou off, but Rokurou shakes his head, his own already working his cock in quick, tight strokes. “I -- got this, you just -- ah, do that harder….” 

Eizen does it harder, shivering all over as he feels Rokurou’s body tighten a second before he comes beneath him. Rokurou slumps forward and Eizen follows him down, one hand braced on the wall and the other held tight in Rokurou’s hair until he, too, comes with a low moan. This one he muffles by biting the back of Rokurou’s shoulder. 

The bed isn’t really big enough for both of them, so when he can move again, Eizen slides onto the floor so his back is pressed against the low frame of the bed. The air is cool against his heated skin, and Rokurou’s quiet for about five minutes in the aftermath, starfishing on Eizen’s bed with one hand patting Eizen’s head like -- well. Eizen doesn’t know. It’s sort of cute, and sort of weird. But it’s nice. It’s been awhile since someone touched him. 

“Thanks,” Rokurou says, at length. “I needed a good, hard fuck.”

Eizen laughs softly. “You’re welcome, but trust me. I needed it, too.” 

“Did you just. Pick up on that with your malak powers, or…?” 

Eizen turns his head to look up Rokurou, who, he has to admit, looks delicious when he’s well-fucked and sated. “My _malak powers_. Yes, there’s the one I hardly ever use, the Hard Fuck Needed Locator. Don’t tell Laphicet or he’ll think it has something to do with maps and ask me to teach it to him.” 

Rokurou laughs. “You know what I mean. I just wasn’t sure how you picked up on the fact I’d be into it, with you. That’s all.” 

“I kissed you and you kissed me back,” Eizen says, dryly. Rokurou swats him on the head, and he sighs. “Fine, I guess maybe I could. I’m attuned to things like scent and energy, which all living things have.” 

“And mine said, _fuck me into your mattress, Eizen_?” 

“Something like that.” Eizen reaches up and snags Rokurou’s wrist before he tries whacking him upside the head again. “Now it’s saying I’m going to beat you into the mattress if you don’t stop hitting me.” 

“Like you could,” Rokurou huffs, but then he just tugs slightly at Eizen’s hair and pats his head again. The explanation seems to satisfy him, as vague as it was -- which is fine, Eizen doesn’t think he can explain something so innate any better than that. 

“Hey.” Rokurou tugs a little sharper on his hair. “You don’t have to sit down there on the floor. You could come up here and fuck me again. Look, I can just tell you. Don’t even have to use your special malak powers or anything.” 

Eizen’s eyebrows raise. His breathing’s just returned to normal after that first time, but maybe he shouldn’t be so surprised -- he’s seen Rokurou fight. “Already?” 

“I charge up fast, what can I say?” Rokurou reaches a hand out. “Or I can fuck you, if you want. I’m good with whatever. Dual wielder, remember? You think I’m joking but I’m totally serious.” 

“Okay, _Magilou_ ,” Eizen deadpans, as he lets Rokurou pull him onto the messy bed. 

“Magikazam!” Rokurou intones, and then tackles him. 

***

  
“Eizen,” Velvet says, catching him the next morning just outside the inn. “Find Benwick. We need to sail to Port Zekson.” 

Eizen’s used to Velvet by now, so he just nods in lieu of asking for an explanation. “Sure.” 

“Can I come with you to the docks, Eizen?,” Laphicet asks, from where he’s trailing behind Velvet as always. Eizen wishes he’d take off that collar of lead with the little bell, because it makes him seem tethered by something other than hard-won loyalty. But he doesn’t say that, because it’s Laphicet’s choice, now. 

“Sure,” Eizen says. “Let’s go.” Laphicet chatters about his maps and finding Terror Island, and together they find Benwick on the docks and make preparations to set sail in an hour. 

“I’ll rally the crew, First Mate!” Benwick promises, and the sylphjay in his hat chirps in agreement. 

“Eizen, how come they still call you that?” Laphicet asks, as they head back toward the town proper. “First Mate, I mean. Now that Captain Van Aifread is dead, how come you’re not the captain?” 

Before Eizen can explain that it’s a mark of well-earned respect, Magilou appears in a flurry of pink and sardonic commentary. “Because, we all know who the captain of this ship of fools is, and it sure ain’t Eizen.” 

Laphicet blinks those big eyes up at Magilou -- completely missing her cynicism as usual. “Who is it, then, if it’s not Eizen?” 

“The Lord of Calamity, of course!” Magilou cries, flinging her arms out. Eizen’s watched her in battle as she casts, and she does it just as dramatically as she does everything else. “We’re all just the masts to her sail, the bait to her lure, the flotsam to her jettson!” 

“I think we’d technically be the jettson,” Eizen points out, unable to help himself. “If you’re implying she tossed us overboard on purpose.” 

“Velvet wouldn’t do that!” Laphicet protests, loyally. 

“Oh, see, I don’t think she’d do it on purpose. She just wouldn’t care and she’d leave us for the sharks!” Magilou says. “Hence, we’re flotsam. Unintentional debris. But she’s the one willingly tossing herself into the sea of danger, walking the plank and swan-diving into the frothing waves of vengeance!” Magilou waits, then sighs. “That was clever, come on, can’t _you_ at least appreciate a good ship metaphor, Eizen?” 

“When I hear one, sure.” 

Her smile turns sly. “ _Orrrrr,_ should I make one about, oh, I don’t know, sheathing your _sword_?”

Eizen blinks, not understanding for a moment until he remembers whose room is next to his. Oh. 

“Eizen doesn’t use swords, though,” Laphicet points out, fundamentally unable to appreciate Magilou’s tactless double-entendre. “He uses his _fists_.” 

“Poor Rokurou!” Magilou says, cackling like the witch she claims to be. “Perfect Mayhem, indeed!” 

Eizen stares up at the sky. If he ignores her, maybe she’ll just go away. 

“But Eizen wouldn’t use his fists _or_ his malak artes on Rokurou,” Laphicet informs Magilou. “He only did it that one time!”

“Pretty sure it was more than once,” Magilou demurs. “It was at least three.” 

Four, if you counted that morning, but Eizen’s not going to correct her. 

“It was?” Laphicet asks, blinking. “But I only remember the one time, when Eizen went after Zaveid and --” 

Eizen closes his eyes as heat creeps up his neck. He really should have expected this, Reaper’s Curse and all. Of course it would be Magilou. “It’s fine, Laphicet,” he interrupts, quickly. “Let’s go find Velvet and tell her we’re all set.” 

Magilou’s laughter follows them off the docks. Well, at least it was just her and not -- 

“Eizen!” Eleanor marches up, hands on her hips, and says primly, “You know, there is a time and a place for -- for _certain things,_ and when I’m trying to have breakfast is _not it._ ” 

“What?” Eizen stares at her for a moment in confusion, until he remembers that while Magilou’s room was on one side of his, the other was --

The dining room. 

Oh, _hell._

“What were you doing in your _room_ that made it so Eleanor couldn’t eat?” Laphicet asks, glancing between them. He looks concerned. 

“Practicing my malak artes,” Eizen says, quickly, because he knows Laphicet will only keep asking until he has an answer. 

“ _Eizen_ ,” Eleanor gasps. “You did _not_ just say that!” 

“Oh, is it one you can teach me?” Laphicet says earnestly, and then, “But not if it will make Eleanor not able to eat. Breakfast is important! But what kind of arte is it?” 

Eleanor makes a sound caught halfway between a gasp and a giggle, and Eizen looks down at Laphicet’s small upturned face and smiles, weakly. “I’ll tell you when you’re older. So, how’s that map coming along?”


End file.
